A novel by Meredith Skye

* ^ * ^ * ^ * ^ *

In the morning Morrhan and his clan awoke before sunrise and prepared to ride against the Chanden. Morrhan felt hopeless about their chances. In this attack, they planned to kill innocent people—people who had never done anything to them. How could Morrhan go through with it? Yet all two hundred Sand Plain Clan warriors seemed set to do this thing—and no arguments had weakened his father, Ashtan's, resolve in the least.

Morrhan focused on his grief for Norbi—the brother he would never see again, a mere child killed by the thoughtless acts of the Chanden. He held onto this thought, using it to fuel his rage.

Would it be enough?

The clan held a ceremony of prayer to the gods for deliverance. Morrhan went to join the circle with a heavy heart, but Ashtan forbade him. "No. They will not hear you."

Angry, Morrhan paused only long enough to watch them prepare.

The warriors, all 200 of them, formed circles. Ashtan stood at the center, as the chieftain and heart of the tribe. His main warriors stood in a circle around him. The rest stood in a circle around them. All stood shoulder to shoulder, clad in their war dress, and ready to fight.

Morrhan went outside to see to the animals, feeding them the small bit of grain the Upper Steppe Clan had given them. It would last a day or two. Enough to get to Hobset but not beyond that. He doubted that the food they'd been given would last longer. After that, they'd have to hunt—but they'd be on the run from the Chanden then.

In the distance, Morrhan heard Ashtan pray and the tribe chanting after him.

Morrhan couldn't shake off the feeling that they were being set up by these two clans. Would they take revenge on the Chanden ... and rid themselves of an enemy clan at the same time?

Soon the warriors emerged from the firecave and began to mount up. Crysethe joined him. "Don't be afraid, brother, I'll protect you," she said, trying to console him.

Crysethe. Morrhan ran after Ashtan to speak to him. "Father, you won't take Crysethe, surely?"

Ashtan turned on him with a glare. "Why not? She has more courage than you."

"Send her back home. She's too young," objected Morrhan.

"I'm not afraid," said Crysethe, innocently.

Ashtan nodded approval at her. "And who would take her back? You?"

"No," stuttered Morrhan. It wasn't an excuse to get out of the battle.

"She'll come."

"Father—" protested Morrhan. This was madness.

Ashtan turned to him with a vicious look in his eyes. "I have a mind to banish you, boy. Speak one more time out of turn and I will."

"But—"

"I mean it!"

They locked eyes.

"You are not my son," his father said. He turned and walked away.

"Father, I'm sorry."

"You never were my son," said Ashtan without looking back at him.

All around him the others mounted up, ignoring him. He had lost all his father's respect. Was Ashtan just angry? He didn't mean that ... did he? Never his son?

"Morrhan," a soft voice pulled him out of his reverie. Crysethe rode up alongside him on her yithhe, and she brought his as well. "Let's go."

Reluctantly, Morrhan mounted the beast and followed the others southeast toward Hobset.

Morrhan blinked away the tears from his eyes.

The other two clans had assembled on the edge of the Upper Steppe settlement, all mounted on yithhe. The three Chanden prisoners stood there, tied to a pole. Each wore a red tunic—the color of death. They would kill them. It felt unreal.

The three chieftains dismounted and met in the center, near the three Chanden, as did Wanlann's eldest and heir, Draypeth.

"Today," said Draypeth. "We will begin our attack on the Chanden. Today we show them our determination! Today, it begins our journey towards freedom. Death to the Chanden!"

"Death to the Chanden! Death to the Chanden!" chanted the warrior's from all three clans, growing louder and louder.

The chieftains Wanlann and Oorgathe drew their swords and approached two of the Chanden prisoners. Morrhan held his breath, fearing what would happen. He had an urge to stop this! But then he might lose his place in the tribe. Ashtan would make good on his threat to banish Morrhan.

He thought of Norbi's death—he had been innocent too. These Chanden had to pay for his brother's death. This was fair, wasn't it?

With one stroke each of them slit the throat of one of the Chanden prisoners. Morrhan felt sick.

Then Ashtan took up his spear and approached the last Chanden prisoner—the Karther factory worker. Morrhan watched with disbelief, doubting somehow that his father could commit such an act.

His father drew back the spear and threw it hard. The spear hit the Chanden in the heart, killing him instantly. The man sagged as his blood spilled on the ground.

The troops shrieking approval. The chieftains mounted again and all of them rode off in their own groups, leaving the bloody bodies behind.

Numbly, Morrhan spurred his yithhe to follow his clan. His horror of the situation overcame his rage against the Chanden. Could he commit such deeds ... against innocent people?

Was he the son of his father?

* ^ * ^ * ^ * ^ *

For two days, the three clans rode south, then west. Three of the Upper Steppe Clan rode with the Sand Plain Clan, presumably to show them the path. Their attitudes were as untamed as was their red hair. Morrhan noticed that they spoke only to Ashtan, dealing very little with the rest of the clan, as though they were beneath them. Even Ashtan was not shown as much respect from them as he deserved.

Morrhan kept a careful eye on them as they traveled. They rode apart from Morrhan's clan, holding their own council. Morrhan didn't trust them, convinced they were up to some mischief. On the second night, the group camped at the foot of the Stormage Hills.

Of all his clan, only his little sister, Crysethe, spoke to him. The rest avoided Morrhan, even Draihe and Keilah. His father wouldn't even look at him. Morrhan couldn't dispel the last words he'd spoken: You were never my son.

The others prepared for bed. The question from the other day still burned in Morrhan's mind. What about his mother? Who was she? Was she fully Garran or was she Chanden? Morrhan couldn't see his father choosing a foreign pairing, but it was known to have happened—hence the half-garrs. Morrhan was one of the oldest of his siblings, so his father would have been young at the time.

Too embarrassed to bring up the subject, lest his father humiliate again, Morrhan settled down for sleep. When this was over—then Morrhan could have a talk with him, calmly.

But would it end? And how?

Morrhan couldn't shake these grim thoughts as he fell asleep that night.

* ^ * ^ * ^ * ^ *

Morrhan scarcely slept the night before they descended on Hobset. Attacking this town was wrong, and he knew it—no matter what a few Chanden had done to Norbi. This attack would enrage the Chanden—and they would then retaliate. All Garrans would suffer for it. The town probably had less than a hundred people in it. What if some of them were children? Would Ashtan really kill them all? Could his father really do it?

Yet, his father had slain the innocent Chanden prisoner.

Maybe his father was right. Maybe Morrhan was a coward. He could leave now, before fully committed. Hide in the hills and watch the battle. When it was over, at least there would be one left to go home and tell the others. But this was his clan. He couldn't abandon them.

At dawn they assembled on a small hill out of sight of the town. The escorts from the Upper Steppe Clan had already left. Morrhan's clan would attack, having the element of surprise. A helpless farming town—yes, they would be surprised. He was sure.

Morrhan quelled the nausea in his stomach.

"This battle is not only for us, but for our families and for our ancestors who smile down on our bravery. We will fight against the Chanden to the last man!" The warriors, already in a battle frenzy, shouted assent. Morrhan said nothing.

"Are there any who think this battle is wrong?" asked Ashtan.

Morrhan stared at him. Was this aimed at him? Morrhan disapproved of the battle, but he would follow his father's orders.

"None object? All are in agreement? Everyone agrees that this is the right thing to do?"

Morrhan willed himself to stay silent—not to speak. Ashtan walked closer to Morrhan. "Step forward if you object." Ashtan stared at Morrhan, daring him.

None of the others objected. But Morrhan had heard their whisperings in the night, their fears.

Why didn't one of them step forward?

Finally Morrhan stepped forward. "I think this is a trap. I think the other clans will betray us."

Ashtan drew near and Morrhan feared he would strike him. "Then I banish you, Morrhan, from the tribe. Leave us." Ashtan turned and moved on. Morrhan stared at him. He had baited him—Ashtan knew he would object.

"No," said Morrhan. "I'll come—"

Ashtan turned and drew his Chanden laser on Morrhan. "You will leave!" he shouted. "I will not have you among us to poison our minds. Go."

Morrhan stared at him. "Let me take Crysethe home with me."

"You don't have a home, boy. You never did belong in the Sand Plain Clan." He raised the weapon at Morrhan, who truly feared that he would fire it. "Go!"

Morrhan mounted his yithhe and rode away, slowly at first, then at a gallop. His heart pounded and he feared that his father would shoot him in the back. He kept going until he made it over the hill then stopped and circled back around, looking for a place to watch the battle from.

Morrhan felt so ashamed. He should have said nothing. If only he could have kept his tongue still! But he feared that his father and those that followed them rode to their deaths.

_______________________________________

Please remember to click "vote!"